


Of Things that Never Gets Better

by isuilde



Series: Respite Verse [4]
Category: Free!
Genre: Angst, Domesticity, M/M, Mentions of Drowning, Nightmares, fuckyeahmakorin's prompt of the week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been years and years since they got together, and sometimes Rin finds it hard to believe that this particular thing is one of the things that never get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Things that Never Gets Better

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [fuckyeahmakorin’s](fuckyeahmakorin.tumblr.com) prompt pf the week, which is **angst**. This is for that. I’m not sure if this qualifies as angst, but it’s been bugging me since this morning and refuses to let me write my thesis before I got it out of my system. So here you go. Part of the Respite Verse, but you can read it as a standalone oneshot.

There are nights when Makoto snaps himself out of a nightmare with a strangled shout, and wakes Rin up in the process. 

“Makoto…?” he calls, reaching out, but before he could even brush his fingertips on Makoto’s exposed back, the covers are thrown back, sheets rustling as the taller man fumbles in the dark for his pants. Rin barely has the time to gather his wits when Makoto slips out of the room, leaving the door half open like he can’t be bothered to close it properly. 

Rin stares at the sliver of light that comes through from the living room and thinks,  _ah, it’s that dream again._  

The sheets rustle under his limbs when he drags himself off the bed, stumbling over his own feet as he tries to find something to cover the lower half of his body. He ends up finding Makoto’s oversized shirt that he wears when he does all-nighters writing research reports, and decides fuck it, might as well. He throws it on, makes sure that the shirt covers his whole bum (it does, it’s even too big for Makoto, what do  _you_  think?) and staggers towards the door. 

The first thing he hears when he reaches the doorway is Makoto’s shaky voice calling into the phone: “Haru?” 

The word breaks, like it’s too frail to touch the air, much like the way Makoto’s breaths edge closer to a sob. Each syllable is a brittle breath, shattering the moment they leave Makoto’s lips, and Rin wonders for a second if Makoto himself is going to follow suit, leaving broken pieces for Rin to pick up on the floor. It’s a scary thought, but not even close to how terrifying it is to see the way Makoto pulls his legs and hugs them close, huddling into himself, like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. 

“Haru,” that name, again. “No, I’m—sorry, were you asleep, I—can I just—talk to me. Anything, anything is fine, I—“ 

The stab of jealousy that crashes down onto him is way too familiar. Rin closes his eyes, breathes through it carefully, and inches away from the living room towards the kitchen. He’s not the type to get jealous over Haruka, god knows he’s got a weird obsession over Haruka himself, but the way his chest aches never fails to surprise him, that even after so many times witnessing this scene. He tells himself it’s silly—Makoto frets over Haruka like no one else, and Rin doesn’t usually get jealous at how much his boyfriend pays attention to Haruka’s life, but this. 

This habit—this time of the night, this particular situation that keeps occurring in their life together, no matter how many years have passed—it makes his chest burns with envy. 

He doesn’t turn on the kitchen lights—it’d only startle Makoto, and if that happened Rin would be the witness of faked smiles and tight eyes that lies about his well-being well into the morning. And that sucks. He doesn’t need the lights anyway; his feet remembers well the distance between the kitchen counter and the stove, his fingers remember where Makoto’s favorite tea leaves are, his hands remember where the pans and the water. 

How many times have he done this, anyway? It’s been years and years since they got together, and sometimes Rin finds it hard to believe that this particular thing is one of the things that never get better. 

He knows, of course. Haruka tells him things too, sometimes, about how Makoto still has nightmares from the day the fishermen’s ship sank, or the day Haruka nearly drowned. If it’s a nightmare from the day the ship sank, Rin can usually calm Makoto down in bed, but if it’s a nightmare of Haruka nearly drowning, there’s nothing that could make Makoto settle down, unless he hears for himself that Haruka is fine,  _alive,_  and well. 

Rin curses under his breath when his fingers misses the tea leaves and drops some of them on the counter. The burn in his chest is turning into anger, one that’s born from helplessness, and Rin is old enough to know nothing good comes out of it. So he focuses on the task instead, lets the routine take him into something familiar, something practical, something that doesn’t hurt. 

Hot water. Tea leaves. A mug that Gou bought as a birthday present for Makoto, with little orcas printed on its edges. The edge of the oversized shirt’s sleeve that he wears touches the hot water, but Rin doesn’t bother to lift it up, even if the hot water that seeps into the fabric stings his skin a little. 

It hurts, but it’s physical. It’s something he can handle.

He glances at Makoto’s silhouette when he finishes, catches the way his back relaxes a little, and wonders why he can’t be the one giving that comfort. 

But this is Haruka; it’s always about Haruka, both for Makoto and Rin. Haruka is a presence too deeply integrated into their lives, it’s impossible to carry on without his shadow above their heads. Haruka is both a friend and family, an existence that’s more fascinating than anything else for Rin, and a pillar of strength for Makoto. Haruka makes up a part of Rin’s life that Makoto cannot fill, the way he fills out the shape in Makoto’s life that Rin can’t fit. 

It’s just how things are. One of the things that should get better, as the years go by, but never does. 

“I love you,” he whispers into the surface of the hot tea; because this is the only time when insecurity grips him hard, the only time when he thinks he might just lose Makoto, the only time he can literally feel how Makoto slowly slips out of his grasp. The disgusting romantic in him wishes for the words to make its way through Makoto’s blood, runs inside his body and reaches his heart, wishes that it’s enough to make him stay by Rin’s side. 

He puts the mug in the kitchen counter, silently makes his way back to their room, and throws a glance towards Makoto before he closes the door entirely. It’s cold—he realizes he’s been walking in bare feet, thinks about how he isn’t wearing anything else except the oversized shirt, and manages a chuckle through the bitter feeling surging through his whole being in that second. 

He crawls into bed, curls up and puts his back towards Makoto’s side of the bed, and pretends to sleep. 

It feels like forever before the door creaks open; the tiny light that slips into their room a huge contrast to the previous pitch black, it makes Rin wince a little. There’s the tinkling sound of a spoon inside a mug, and Rin knows Makoto has found his tea, just like he always does. 

“…Rin…?” a tentative murmur, spoken in a tone so apologetic and painful, Rin feels like something in his chest just breaks. “Are you awake?” 

Rin doesn’t move. Doesn’t change the way he breathes, doesn’t even twitch in the slightest. He reminds himself that this is how Makoto feels whenever Rin forgets everything else except Haruka, whenever Rin is caught up in the beauty of Haruka’s swimming, whenever Rin’s world is made up by nothing but Haruka. He reminds himself that it’s only fair, that sometimes he gets to feel the burning heat that turns into anger in his chest, the ache of helplessness and losing something to someone else. 

He’s not a good person—he’s not Makoto. If he were, he would’ve turned around, would’ve told Makoto that it’s fine, so get back to sleep. But Rin is a horrible person, which is why he keeps his back to Makoto, the only silent warning that he’s angry, that he doesn’t like this, that he wishes this would get better—they would get better—and why can’t Makoto try harder, why can’t Makoto find solace in Rin for this, too?

It’s a horrible, unfair thought, but Rin never claims himself as a good person. 

The sheets rustle when Makoto crawls back into bed, settling down next to Rin; they’re only inches away, separated by sheets dirtied by their previous nightly activities, but not a single part of their bodies touch. 

Rin closes his eyes, because  _that_  defines pain more than anything. 

“I’m sorry,” Makoto breathes, nearly inaudible, apologetic and regretful and pained. Rin wants to turn around and gather him into his arms, but he doesn’t, because Rin is angry and horrible and petty, and sometimes he thinks Makoto deserves someone better, but he’s too selfish to let go. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Rin.” 

When he falls asleep, he’s cold. 

But it’s warm when he wakes up; the covers wrapping his half-naked body properly even as the sunrays fall onto him through the curtain. Rin squints, curses because he’s never a morning person, and hears the sounds of pans sizzling in the kitchen. 

He stumbles out of the room, still in the oversized shirt, and finds a table laden with his favorite food. On the kitchen counter are two mugs full of warm milk—one mug has little orcas printed on its edges, and the other has collages of sharks and Makoto’s hand curling around its handle. 

The pan is still sizzling on the stove, but Makoto is leaning on the counter, his gaze locked on Rin and only Rin, and the redhead fights the flush trying to make its way up his face. 

Makoto smiles, eyes fond and gentle and filled with unspoken i-love-yous. “Good morning.” 

Apology accepted, Rin thinks, closes the distance between him and Makoto in five quick steps, and accepts the mug with little orcas that Makoto offers him. He inhales deeply, lets Makoto’s arm winds around his hips and settles himself against the counter, closes his eyes when Makoto’s lips find his own. 

Sometimes, there are things that could never get better, and the only thing they could do is to deal with it. 

Rin likes to think that they manage just fine. 

**——-o0ofinitoo0o——-**


End file.
